David Anderson's Blog

Ben pulled the chain then lowered the toilet seat quietly. He hated having to come to the bathroom in the middle of the night, navigating his way through the pitch darkness for fear of waking his parents by turning on the hallway light. He wouldn’t admit to being scared of the dark, but he certainly wasn’t fond of it. Night-time shadows gave the interior of his house, so welcome and comforting in the light of day, a far more menacing veneer. He tiptoed his way to the bathroom door fighting an almost overwhelming urge to look back over his shoulder. If there was something sinister lingering in his shower cubicle he didn’t want to see it. He shivered at the thought of what horrors could be watching him from their unseen positions.

Ben peered out of the bathroom door, down the long hallway at the end of which stood his bedroom. He longed for the safety of his bed. Everyone knew that once you got to your room and fully covered yourself with your bed sheets that you were safe from any harm. Nothing could get you when you were holed up beneath those sheets, absolutely nothing at all. It was a simple fact, one his own mother had reiterated to him on numerous occasions. Secure as gold bars in a bank vault, she had told him, once your entire body was hidden away beneath them.

Ben steeled himself and took a first apprehensive step into the dark hallway. As he did so, a low, shapeless figure scampered from the doorway of the spare bedroom and raced towards him at speed. Ben’s eyes widened and his mouth slackened; if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder, he might have done so into the leg of pyjama bottoms. He took an involuntary step backwards and a burst of adrenaline exploded through his body. Just as he was about to cry out, he managed to stop himself. It was only Elmer, he realised, his dog. With his sensitive hearing he had probably been spooked by the refilling of the toilet cistern and made a terrified dash for it. The stupid beast had almost given him a heart attack. Ben had never known a more anxious creature – well, with the possible exception of himself.

Shaken and not wanting to wait for another unnecessary scare to fall into his lap, Ben bounded headlong down the hallway and into his bedroom. He threw the creaking door his father had been threatening to oil for months closed without so much as a backwards glance. With the grace of an Olympic athlete, he threw himself onto his bed and hurriedly pulled his bed covers over him. His protective barrier in place, Ben heaved a great sigh of relief. He risked a quick hand beyond the boundaries of his cocoon, yanked down his pillow, and began to make himself comfortable.

Unexpectedly, there came a scrabbling sound from beneath Ben’s bed. Still in flight or fight mode, he scarcely heard the noises over the wild galloping of his heartbeat and the ragged gasps of his terrified breathing. Lying as still as possible, holding his breath as best he could, and trying to still the errant rhythm within his chest, Ben listened for a repeat. For a long time there was nothing but, just as he was begin to believe he had imagined the sounds, they came again, accompanied by a nudge at the foot of his bed.

As his heart rate picked up its erratic pace again, Ben thought hard. It had to be Elmer beneath his bed, didn’t it? The skittish creature had snuck into his master’s room looking for comfort; what other explanation could there be? But what if he was wrong? Should he lift the bed sheets and make sure?

After a moment, Ben made up his mind. The presence beneath his mattress simply had to be his silly dog. Chastising himself for scaring so easily, Ben decided he would raise the sheets and let Elmer clamber into bed with him. Besides, wouldn’t he feel more secure sharing his bed with his faithful companion? Didn’t his teachers always say walking home from school with lots of friends was best as safety came in numbers? Wouldn’t that same rule apply to this very situation? Yes, he would raise the sheets. Elmer’s presence would be a welcome one.

Before he had time to change his mind, Ben shuffled towards the foot of his bed trying his damnedest to stay covered by his sheets at all times. He reached out to raise the bottom of his bed covers when a sudden thought stayed his hand. If Elmer really had come into his room, why hadn’t he heard the telltale creak of his door’s unlubricated hinges?

Before Ben could formulate another thought, something grabbed the bed covers from the outside and ripped them away. With a gasp, Ben was exposed to the naked darkness and chill of his bedchamber. It was then that the ancient, lined face with its vacant, cataract clouded eyes revealed itself by the room's scant light. It was then, before Ben could utter a scream, that the gnarled, ice cold hand grasped his ankle and began to pull him under the bed. It was then that Ben knew the assurances of safety afforded to him by his bed covers had been nothing but lies.

His eyes settle on her across the busy room. Jesus Christ, is it really her? It must be, the resemblance is too uncanny. His eyes follow her and she must sense it as she turns and looks directly at him. A flicker of recognition then a beaming smile. Fifteen years and she's barely changed. Still as striking as she was before. She moves through the crowd and comes to him.

'Is it really you?' she asks.

'It is,' he responds. 'Is it really you?'

She giggles. He remembers the sound well. It thrills him, transports him back through time.

'You come here often?' he jokes and she laughs again.

She places a hand on his arm and a shudder runs through his body. He is filled with a familiar sense of longing. 'Fancy seeing you here,' she says.

'Can I get you something to drink?' She looks back at her friends, considers, then turns back to him and nods coyly. 'What you having?'

He buys her the cocktail she asks for, still the same as she drank way back when. Some things never change. They talk about inconsequential things: work, homeownership, friendship groups, holidays. Her friends come over and tell her they are leaving. She waves them away, tells them she's staying, that she'll catch them up.

Is he in with a shot here? He's getting good vibes. This is old territory – he knows the lay of the land, or did, anyway – he should be able to read the signs. But time has passed, have there been monumental shifts in her since then? Does he even want to tread old ground? Look how it ended last time – he can recall the hurt like it was yesterday. The wounds may have healed but what if the skin is thin, fragile, ready to tear open again at the first opportunity?

The chatter begins to rewind the years, leaving the vicinity of inconsequential, moving into the meaningful. As the drinks flow they move onto the taboo subject of their few months together as a couple. They laugh and joke about them but, thinking back, he honestly can't remember if they were the happiest of his life or the most painful. Time, the great despoiler, does that to your memories.

The seconds tick by, driving the more dominant hands of the clock ever onwards. Is she interested or isn't she? Lingering touches, lasting eye contact, laughing at his dire jokes. Then again, she could just be sparing some time for an old flame. Shouldn't she be playing with her hair if she was really keen?

His mind hones in on something. We're broken, aren't we? Words spoken before they parted ways and she wandered off with someone else. Well, does tonight mean they are fixed?

The bar begins to empty as people move on to clubs or head for home. He doesn't have forever to pose the question that is nagging at him. Pointless fighting the inevitable though, he knows himself too well. Lock up the doubts and get on with it. Eventually he builds up the courage to ask. 'Do you want to come back to my place?'

She seems to mull it over for a second before responding. 'Yeah, okay,' she says. 'Sure.'

***

There is silence in the taxi as it accelerates towards their destination. The outside beyond the windscreen is suddenly hostile and perturbing, the taxi a protective cavern in the darkness. The lights beyond the windows zip by like the intervening years, trailing endless lines through the night.

The lack of conversation disturbs him. Is she having second thoughts? Are they making a terrible mistake here? Her hand falls to his knee and stays there and all doubts are dispelled. His body is suddenly taut with pleasantly unbearable tension, an electricity has triggered every nerve. Her resting hand sends tremors through him like the presence of some supernatural entity.

They pull up at his house and he pays the driver, handing over a big tip, a reminder of his generosity and all-round good guy status. She leads the way up his drive and waits patiently at the door as he fishes in his pocket for his keys. He unlocks it and lets her in.

Once inside he struggles for something to say. How to approach a situation that falls just beyond the normal?

'Fancy a coffee?' Even as the words leave his mouth he feels stupid. What an imbecilic thing to say.

She raises a wry eyebrow. 'It's a little late for caffeine, isn't it?'

She comes over to him, takes his hand, leads him upstairs. His heart hammers in his chest, his mind is a whirring confusion of anticipation, fear, and random fragments of their ancient history. He is like a teenager all over again.

She asks which room is his and he points the way. She pushes open the door, falls onto the bed and pulls him down with her. She presses her lips against his and his synapses fire, reviving memories that have long lay dormant, restoring their colour, sharpening their dulled edges, restoring their intensity, making them vivid. The feel and taste of her are familiar. He can resist no longer. His hands begin to wander. So do hers.

***

He wakes to bright morning sunshine and a momentary shock as he notices the figure lying next to him. Then it all comes rushing back. The ecstasy of last night is quickly overwhelmed by a melancholy sense of regret. What the fuck was I thinking, he silently asks himself.

He watches her sleep for a while, battling conflicting emotions. Do you know how much you meant to me, he wonders. Do you care at all that you fucked everything up? After some time she stirs, turns slowly to face him. There's a quick something in her eyes that tells him she feels the same misgivings as he does. 'Morning,' she whispers.

'Morning,' he replies.

She sits up, throws her legs over the side of the bed. Her body is the same as ever, the curves as memorable as any landscape he has ever seen. She is fending off the ravages of time far better than he. She stands and his eyes are drawn by her every movement. She picks up her underwear and jeans, starts to pull them on. Mesmerising.

He notices the wedding ring on her finger as she continues to dress, muses over it briefly. Perhaps the husband is estranged. Perhaps dead. Or maybe things haven't changed one iota in all the years that have passed.

'Won't you stay a while?' he asks, hoping she won't.

'I should get going,' she says without hesitation. 'Busy day ahead, you know?'

He throws on last night's clothing as she hurriedly tries to fix her hair. When she's ready he walks her downstairs, opens the front door for her. She turns to him, rests her hands lightly on his shoulders, raises herself up on tiptoes, and plants kisses on both his cheeks. Demure now.

'I had a lovely time,' she tells him. A faint smile and then she turns to leave. She doesn't look back as she walks away. There she goes, he thinks, strutting out of my life again. How fleeting every encounter between them, how utterly futile.

He shuts the door, locks it, then trudges into the living room and drops onto the couch. He picks up the remote and flicks on the TV.

I perch myself at the edge of a bar and sip my cocktail. I'm shirtless and bronzed to perfection. Behind the cover of my shades I scan the surrounding area for potential. An attractive blonde walks by and brazenly looks at me – I flash her a winning smile and she reddens noticeably. I live for the summer and these holidays.

I follow the short path back to my hotel. I jump in the shower, wash off the tanning oil and scrub the sweat from my sculpted muscles. I work hard on my physique back home – the better I look the easier it is for me to achieve what I set out to do. I step out of the shower after a long soak and towel myself dry. I pull some threads from the wardrobe – all designer, of course – and set about ironing them to perfection. I couldn't face heading out with a single crease in my clothing. When I'm done I head back to the bathroom and spend a long while fixing up my appearance. I style every strand of hair until I'm happy with it. I wouldn't dream of heading out without looking my absolute best.

I head to the nearest bar and order a drink. As I look around a pretty young thing catches my eye. I take a last look at myself in the mirror and head over to ask if I can join her. Her friends giggle as she agrees to my request. Her pals depart, leaving us alone and I begin to chat her up. This I find truly easy; I have no problems interacting with the fairer sex.

She asks where my friends are. I lie and tell her they ditched me earlier in the night. She giggles some more and buys my story without question. My appearance lulls women into believing every word that falls from my mouth. We swap idle chatter for a while and I buy her a couple of drinks – not that I need any help in getting her where I want her to be. After a short period of time I come straight out with it and ask her if she wants to come back to my hotel. She agrees without hesitating. Mission successful. I live for these moments.

She grips my bicep as we wander back to the hotel and coos over how solid my muscles are. I thank her absentmindedly – all my focus is now on the act that is about to occur. I lead her up the steps to my room and unlock the door. Before I can even properly close it again she has wrapped her arms around my neck and is attempting to kiss me. I push her away gently and order her to lie on the bed. She goes willingly, stripping off her clothes as she does so. Soon she is fully naked and beckoning me to come to her. Slowly I approach the bed, drawing things out, increasing the anticipation. I step onto the bed and straddle the girl.

Then I close my hands around her throat and press down hard. Her eyes bulge comically and she beings to bat her arms feebly against mine. Her struggles quickly diminish and soon she lies motionless on the bed, her face that familiar shade of blue. I live for these moments.

I step back from the bed and admire my handiwork. When I've savoured the scene sufficiently, I begin to pack up all of my things. My flight leaves in a matter of hours. The room is booked for another two days as a precaution – when they discover the body I'll be long gone. They won't find me either, they never do. The hotel is the shabbiest on the island, chosen specifically for their lack of CCTV cameras and their lax security measures. They didn't even check my passport when I arrived and, even if they had, they wouldn't catch me. I carry a perfect fake – they're easy enough to find on the internet if you know where to look.

Once I have carefully placed my belongings into my case, I zip it up and fasten the locks. I calmly leave my room, exit the hotel and hail a cab.

On my way to the airport I contemplate another successful holiday. I can barely wait for next year.

What could possibly be more joyful and heart-warming than travelling with someone we love to an exotic destination? I’ll see you at the beach.

He folded the note, put it down and looked out of the window. Not a soul stirred in the empty world he'd inherited. Humanity’s ruination lay before him, stark and obvious.

Were those her own words or someone else’s? He’d no way to find out unless he scoured every book in every library on the off chance he’d eventually stumble upon them. He could do that: he had time enough at last. But what would be the point? They were poignant and meaningful regardless, secret words that filled him with useless regret.

Of all the books he could have picked up, why the one hiding her secret note? What had made him choose it from the many at his disposal? This volume had sat there untouched for years, until today.

When had she written these words, constructed this hidden message to him? He'd been doing okay until he discovered it – or as okay as one could be, bearing in mind the circumstances – dealing with the loneliness as best he could, the crushing melancholy.

A dire shadow had fallen over him upon finding this message and now he realised he missed her. Craved one of their infamous arguments, even. He found it amazing how you could learn to dislike someone so intensely in life yet miss them so desperately when they were gone.

Absence does funny things to memories, transforms irritation into fondness. With passing time the unsatisfactory moments acquire a lustre previously lacking, unremarkable moments begin to carry more importance, more heft and meaning. Sentimentality blossoms like a cancer that cannot be quelled. The bad memories, the harsh times, the tribulations, they dim until they are forgotten.

Perhaps, just perhaps, if he hadn’t pushed her away she wouldn’t have been there when it all happened. She could be here, with him, alive. He’d have her company, her warmth at night. He wouldn’t feel so alone. This dead world was his dominion now, but it wasn’t enough. A tiny spark is all that is needed to set away the insatiable blaze that is heartsickness. Her note had kindled an unstoppable, destructive force.

He had always marvelled over the incredible power of the human spirit. To know one’s time is short, but to have the resilience to carry on in spite of this, with the spectre of death continually lingering over one’s shoulder. For one’s existence to be so fleeting, so unimaginably fragile but to battle on anyway, against insurmountable odds. Her words had obliterated his resilience, broken his indomitable spirit in an instant.

He unfolded the note again, read it for the hundredth time, then looked back at the table, towards the pill bottle standing upon it. He went to the small brown container, picked it up, shook it and rattled the pills inside. He unscrewed the cap, tipped some onto his palm. He mulled over them briefly, but his delay was short, his mind already made up. He tossed the tablets into his mouth.

Yes, he thought, I'll see you at the beach.

I bumped into a man on the train today as I headed home from work. I turned and apologised to him. He was smartly dressed in an expensive suit and tie with slicked back hair reminiscent of a Brylcreem poster boy. He had a jacket draped over his right arm and an umbrella in his left fist. I raised my hand and said sorry; he nodded his acceptance. The doors of the train slid shut and I forgot about him as I left the train station.

It wasn't until later than I noticed a small spot of blood on the back of my hand. There was also a small bloodstain on the cuff of my white shirt. As I removed my shirt and popped it in the washing machine I recalled the fellow on the train and his umbrella. I must have knicked myself on it somehow as I forced my way through the crowd. I gave the incident no further thought, forgetting the gentleman once again as I sat down for my dinner.

Later I settled down in front of the television for the night with a couple of cans of beer. After finishing the final can, I crushed it, brushed my teeth and went to bed.

I had some funny dreams that night. First I was sat at a small wooden table in a cavernous room that looked like an aircraft hangar. Across from me sat the fellow from the train. He was wearing the same outfit from earlier, his long legs crossed, his hands placed on his topmost knee. He smiled at me and I smiled back. This locale faded out and was replaced soon after by another. The well-dressed man was leading me down a corridor lined on either side with doors. I looked as far as I could ahead of the gentleman and could see no end to that corridor. It seemed to stretch on into infinity. I didn't dare look over my shoulder for fear that the infinity was also behind me and would attempt to claim me, drag me kicking and screaming into forever. The doors we passed were numbered, the digits impossibly long, some separated onto as many as ten or twenty lines. Despite this the man walked with purpose, as if he knew where he was going.

After this the dream became fragmented and confusing. I dreamed I was standing at a cash point. I entered my number into the ATM and cash began to spew from the mouth of the withdrawal slot like you see in comedy sketches. Next I was buying a crate of turnips and a hat for a donkey from a famous online retailer. The dream took me through each step of the baffling purchase in great detail: entering my address, my credit card details and security code, going back over every detail methodically to check for mistakes. Finally I dreamed I was a child again, standing by myself in the centre of a giant stage, spotlight blinding me. Before me a huge crowd watched on raptly. The scene reminded me of a spelling bee I had taken part in when I was thirteen, but when I opened my mouth I spewed forth nothing but an endless list of numbers. For some reason I felt they sounded familiar, but from where I could not determine.

I woke up. I had neglected to shut my curtains properly and a slant of bright morning sunshine had crawled onto my face through the gap. I sat up and mulled over the unusual dream. Then, as is common with interrupted dreams, the details rapidly began to fade from my memory. I shrugged, dragged myself out of bed and showered. By the time I had towelled myself dry I'd completely forgotten the disjointed dream.

I left my house for work thirty minutes later and as I pushed the key into the lock on my front door I noticed the small knick on my hand had become a livid bruise. How strange.

During my lunch hour I visited a cash point to withdraw some cash to pay for my coffee and sandwich. I entered my main bank card, keyed in the PIN and found my account to be completely empty. I had the same problem with the other cards, too.

Four of them came up to me on the Metro - the northeast's local train service - and started giving me trouble. Two males and two females in their late teens, early twenties. I'd had the audacity to ask them to tone down their raucous language. There was no one else in the carriage.

'Who the fuck are you talking to?' A tracksuit wearing thug. He wore a cocked NY cap, had pasty skin and dark circles beneath his eyes.

'Yeah, shut your fucking mouth, dickhead!' His burly friend, shaved head, vacant face full of acne.

'Fucking nobhead! Do him in! Go on, do him in!' One of the females, hate contorting her features into the mask of an ancient hag.

'Yeah, fuck him up, McKenzie, the fucking cunt.' The last member of the group, nicotine-yellowed teeth, hair pulled back into a painfully tight ponytail, tattoo on her neck.

McKenzie. I was in no doubt this was his Christian name. What do parents think these days? You're more likely to meet an Armani, Gucci or Pepsi than a Michael, David or Christopher. The youth of today have become walking advertisements with their ridiculous monikers.

McKenzie, the cap wearer, stepped forward, getting right up in my face. He threw foul taunts my way, calling me all the names under the sun: cunt, twat, paedo. These cowardly, feral creatures only strike when they easily outnumber their chosen victim or spot a group they identify as weaker than themselves. They obviously saw me as the baby fawn lingering at the back of the herd. They were in for a surprise if they thought they could push me around.

The lead chav - that's what we call them up here, you might have a different name for them, but if you think of an unpleasant delinquent you won't be far wrong - raised his hand to push me but I struck first. None of the group had noticed my hand slip to my pocket as McKenzie squared up to me. I whipped my clenched fist from my pocket and lodged my house key deep into the soft flesh of McKenzie's neck.

McKenzie instinctively attempted to slap my hand away but his swipes had no real power. His eyes widened almost comically. I began to hack the key through his flesh in a right to left sawing motion.

The key cut through the soft flesh with surprising ease, ripping open a ragged, bloody smile in McKenzie's throat. Hot spurts of blood gushed out of the wound in powerful geysers as I severed his carotid artery; as it snapped it gave a satisfying twang like a plucked guitar string. The hot stickiness that covered my face and clothing made me simultaneously want to scream at the top of my lungs and laugh hysterically. Blood stained the train window an opaque crimson. My arm down to the elbow was tacky with blood.

McKenzie's struggles diminished rapidly. His cap, precariously perched to begin with, spilled off his head and landed in the pooling blood at his feet; it sucked up the crimson like a parched sponge. Soon all of his fight had gone. He slumped forward and hit the floor with a wet slap. I watched as his tracksuit turned from white to red, like litmus paper dipped into a caustic acid.

I turned my attention back to McKenzie's friends. They'd watched his death knell without uttering a sound or moving an inch. Their contempt for me had been replaced by utter disbelief. The remaining lad had been nothing more than a gormless bully to start with and was now merely a frightened gormless bully. I looked to the two girls willing them to give me an opportunity to teach them a lesson, too. They were the real catalysts here. Moments earlier they were jeering, heckling, threatening. The real ringleaders, thinking because they were female (term used lightly) they could incite violence with impunity. I begged for an opportunity to prove them wrong. But now they had fallen dumbstruck and terrified. They cowered behind the big daft lad, their eyes bulging in terror, their poisonous tongues silent. The transformation in them had been a drastic one. I almost went for them anyway, but I managed to restrain myself.

The Metro began to slow as it reached its next stop. The train screeched to a halt, the warning buzzer sounded and the doors slid open.

'You pond life scum,' I muttered menacingly, barely audible. 'Get off this train, before you end up like him.'

They went willingly, skirting the ever increasing pool of blood forming around McKenzie's body as if it would be death to touch it. Their wide eyes never once left mine as they shuffled like a chain gang to the exit. They stepped off the train and continued to stare at me, mouths agape, from the platform. The buzzer sounded again and as the doors slid shut I expected some pitiful remark or retort, as is customary from their ilk when they believe they're safely out of harm's way. But they just stared at me in shocked silence.

The train slowly began to pull away. It gained speed and I watched as they shrank away into the distance. When I could no longer see them I turned around and looked down at the prone body, at the spreading blood that looked as black as oil.

I returned to my seat and waited for the police.

I booked into another hotel today, this one a grand old building on the southwest coast, overlooking the beach. I checked in, stored my luggage in my room. I took out the damned notebook and pen and set them on the writing desk located at the foot of my bed.

I went downstairs to the restaurant and had myself a fine meal - a steak, medium-rare, cooked to perfection - and a bottle of vintage wine. Cost me an arm and a leg. I retired to the bar for a digestif and read the broadsheets as I waited for my food to digest.

When I wasn't feeling so bloated, I took a walk around the hotel grounds and along the beach. The wind was bracing but I didn't mind, it freshened me up, focused my mind. I turned up my collar and put my hands in my pockets.

I'm not getting any younger and my knees quickly began to pain me so I returned to the hotel and went to my room. I pulled a parlour chair to the window and admired the scenery. My view looked out to the sea and I watched the waves break against the beach until it was too dark to see them anymore. Fittingly it began to rain. I roused myself from my seat, my knees complaining ferociously, and flicked on the lights. I could no longer put off what had to be done.

I manoeuvred the chair back to the writing desk and sat down. I reached for the notebook and opened it to the first blank page. I tried my best to avoid looking at the handwritten script that filled the opposite page. Having to read it once had been enough. The handwriting was my own, for shame.

I picked up the pen and put it to paper. My hand began to move as if by instinct and words began to pour onto the page. I read them as I went and was disgusted with what my hand was transcribing. Vile words, scenes of torture, sexual depravity, sickening murder, foulness unimaginable.

I am a mild-mannered man, people who know me call me friendly, pleasant, decent. How then can these lunatic words come from the same well-liked man? Do they come from my subconscious or do I channel them from some separate, corrupt individual? I hope for my sake, no matter how implausible, that they are the words of another and not mine.

I write solidly for an hour, filling four, five, six pages in tiny letters. My hand aches from writing but I am powerless to stop its movement. When the words run dry it will stop of its own accord. I have learned this through experience. I simply have to wait this unpleasantness out. The intensity of the rain steadily increases, pounding the windowpane loudly. Each monstrous drop sounds like a child's palms striking the glass. I dare not look to the window for fear of seeing pale, wet faces floating in the darkness.

Finally, mercifully, the pen drops from my hand and clatters to the floor. I bend to pick it up and my back creaks audibly as I do so. I'm not getting any younger. Exhausted, I lift myself from my chair and undress. I slip beneath the covers of the bed and fall asleep, lulled by the rain that had until recently terrified me so.

I enjoy a dreamless slumber. I cannot vouch for the other guests who share the hotel with me.

When Timmy complained of hearing noises at night we dismissed them as the house settling into its foundations. When he claimed he saw strange people skulking in the corners of his room we dismissed them as figments of his over-active imagination. It wasn't until it was too late that we realised we should have paid more heed to what he’d been saying.

Getting Timmy off to sleep each night had always been a chore. Even as a very small child it had been difficult to get him to drift off and he had always been a restless sleeper, awoken by even the slightest sound. We thought he would grow out of these problems as he got older but things actually became worse. A couple of times a week we’d be dragged from our sleep by his screams as he suffered another nightmare. You’d have to sit with him for hours on end before he finally drifted back off to sleep; we would regularly turn up for work unfit for service as a result.

After he turned seven he began having recurring bad dreams. In them he could hear footsteps from above, as if there was some unthinkable horror crawling the ceiling of his room. On other occasions he would catch a glimpse of a figure observing him from the darkness behind his wardrobe. We tried our best to explain these incidents away. Our house was old. Creaks and groans were common and only natural. There couldn't possibly be anyone else in the house, all of the windows and doors were locked tight. There certainly are no such things as ghosts. But Timmy never bought our explanations.

We bought him a nightlight and for a while this did the trick. We believed the light had banished these apparitions back to the prison of his mind. We had a week of blissfully unbroken sleep and believed a corner had finally been turned. But one night the visions started again with a vengeance.

I would be lying if I said that Timmy’s actions hadn't been a nuisance. They caused a great deal of strife for me and the wife; we fought a lot and struggled at work. This was caused by a mixture of exhaustion and frustration. We even snapped at Timmy, telling him he was becoming a big boy now and needed to grow up. Those harsh words fill me with shame now, after what happened. If only we had taken him more seriously, this would never have happened.

The night everything happened was no different from any of the others. We were awoken by Timmy’s screams and I stamped angrily into his room. I shouted at him, I admit it, demanded that he be quiet and let his parents get some deserved rest. He quietened down somewhat and I left him in his room with the light on. From my bed I listened as he fought valiantly to quieten his sobs. I was already feeling guilty for raising my voice but I didn't allow myself to go back to him to apologise. Eventually the blubbering ceased and I took that to mean that Timmy had fallen asleep. I was so exhausted that within minutes I had drifted off myself.

The wife always got up earlier than me to prepare Timmy’s breakfast and get him ready for school. She would always wake me as she stepped out of bed so I was already awake when I heard her scream. I jumped from the bed and dashed to Timmy’s room where the sound had emanated. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Timmy’s bed was empty.

We searched the house quickly to see if Timmy was hiding from us. Sometimes he would do this to punish us if we were too strict with him. But we couldn't find him in any of his favourite spots. We checked the windows and doors, fearing he had run away from home, but they all remained locked. In a panic, we called the police.

As I paced the house aimlessly waiting for them to arrive I happened to notice the loft hatch was ajar. Irrational relief washed over me; despite the fact it was impossible for him to have gotten up there by himself, that must be where he was hiding. I grabbed the ladders from the garage and made my way into the loft, speaking soothingly to Timmy the whole time. What I found up there was the most terrible surprise I could ever have imagined.

There was clear evidence of habitation. Behind a stack of boxes filled with our junk I found two dirty sleeping bags placed upon mattresses made of soiled rags and assorted belongings pilfered from the packages up there. By the sides of the beds were a number of open food cans, some knives and forks. A small pile of dirty clothing stood at the foot of one of the beds. To my growing horror I noticed two shafts of light coming from small holes in the floor of the loft. In a daze I lowered myself and confirmed my suspicions; they allowed a perfect view into Timmy’s room. I was physically sick at that moment. People had taken residence in our home without us knowing and what Timmy had been saying was true. He had actually seen and heard the things we had denied.

The one thing I keep asking myself is how had those vagrants or squatters, or whatever you want to call them, lived up there for so long without us noticing? It repulses me to think how long they had been up there and how much they had seen. I hate them for what they have done but I hate myself more for not taking my boy’s problems more seriously. I was wrong to dismiss his claims as childish nonsense. I've since come to realise that not all horrors are supernatural; the majority of them are flesh and blood. I’ll never forgive myself for not realising earlier.

1 - Take pride in your work
Some authors pop self-published books on Amazon that are littered with grammatical errors, spelling mistakes and are not properly formatted. Instead of rushing to get your book online and make your fortune (haha), take a little extra time to check through your work and make sure it is at the highest standard possible.

I read through my book, The Wanderer, nine times in total before I uploaded it to Amazon, including one thirteen hour mammoth session the day before I published. I'd recommend you do the same, go through your work and make sure there are as few errors as humanly possible; some will escape your keen eye but the fewer the better.

Format the book properly before release. Make sure your paragraph indents are uniform and that your work looks neat and tidy. Every book I've ever read has justified text; ensure yours does too. I format my work in Adobe InDesign, it is pricey but the results speak for themselves. If you aren't computer savvy enough to do the formatting yourself, ask someone with experience for help or pay a professional to do it for you.

2 - Get your friends to help out
If you can't afford an editor (as I couldn't) ask your friends to read through your work for you. I had three different people read through my manuscripts and their feedback was invaluable. I guarantee they will pick up on mistakes that you've passed over a hundred times without noticing. Make sure you pick friends who are literate, though. And remember to offer them a few beers or something in exchange for their hard work.

3 - Get a good cover
There are a number of self-published efforts on Amazon with extremely poor covers. I know the old adage tells us never judge a book by its cover, but we all do. If you don't have a friend who will make you an excellent cover for free (like I did; I was lucky!) I'd honestly recommend you pay a good graphic designer to create one for you. If it were me, I'd avoid the cut-price amateurs who flog their wares via Twitter; let's be honest, the stuff they produce is usually pretty poor.

Remember, the cover is usually the first thing that gets a person interested in your story and it is vitally important that it does its job effectively. Something knocked up in Microsoft Paint is likely to put readers off.

4 - Don't spam the Amazon forums
This point is one of the most important. You might think that hawking your new book on all the related forums and threads you find on Amazon is a great idea. You couldn't be more wrong.

If one thing is guaranteed to put people off buying your work it is forcing it down their necks where it is not wanted. The messageboard users on Amazon have one pet hate amongst all others and that is shameless self-promotion. Anything you post in those forums regarding something you've written yourself is more likely to hurt sales than help them.

5 - Don't spend hours abusing Twitter
Don't spend hour upon hour posting about your book on Twitter; that time could be much better spent writing your next book. A single occasional message with meaning is much more powerful than posting endless inane and repetitive nonsense that will ultimately be ignored by your followers.

I created a Twitter account to post milestones about my book and important news such as price drops or special offers. People don't want to see me posting thousands of review excerpts per day and harking on about how great my book is. That's just plain annoying.

6 - Be reluctant to pay for advertising
There are hundreds of sites popping up on Twitter and Facebook that will pop a copy of your book cover and your blurb on their site for a princely sum. Before you jump in and waste your hard-earned cash on an advertisement that might never see a single hit, try exploring the free options. There are many sites and helpful services that will tweet about your book or pop a link on their site for nothing. That's right, absolutely FREE.

I did one interview for a small local magazine, had my book advertised for free at NovelSpot, posted one thread on a football forum and donated 50% of my earnings for the first two months on sale to Macmillan cancer charity. From those four simple steps I have sustained impressive sales figures (well, from my point of view anyway) for the last four or five months. At the end of the day, I'm a firm believer that if your book is good enough, it will sell regardless.

7 - Push for reviews
If you do create a Facebook or Twitter account or sanction a website for your book, use it to push for reviews once your sales start to pick up. Leave a link to each account or page you create on your author profile so that your new readers can keep in touch with you. Just remember my previous point and don't over do it. Make a polite request every three or four days in the first few weeks your book is on sale and then tone it down a bit as the book becomes more established.

I honestly believe the biggest factor in my book's success are the positive reviews it received on Amazon. People are far more likely to believe the impartial words and opinions of a fellow reader than the vain squawking of an egotistical author.

8 - Read as you write
Reading a book as you write is a great way of improving your work. I can't remember the number of times I have stumbled on a word in a book I've been reading that I have later used to massively improve a sentence I wrote earlier. Sometimes reading another person's book when you take a break from your own writing will stimulate your imagination, prompt you to consider and possibly add sections to your book that you might never have thought of otherwise. One insignificant paragraph or phrase in another novel could very well be the catalyst to bettering your own.


Well, that's all. I hope I haven't been too blunt and that the points I've highlighted come in handy. Let me know what you think below. Hope I don't regret that request!